


I Set You on Fire Babe

by nairwal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Drabble, First Meetings, Hospitals, M/M, Minor Injuries, Museums, Short, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairwal/pseuds/nairwal
Summary: Crowley suffers a minor injury while working at the museum and Aziraphale jumps in to help.*“Are you an angel?” Crowley asks.The voice laughs softly and it makes him feel warm. “No. No, I'm not.”





	I Set You on Fire Babe

Crowley's job at the museum was only supposed to be temporary — something to thicken his experience in work so he could pursue his half-baked dreams of studying music theory at university. He's been employed here since he was seventeen; near enough two full years and he's one bad day away from throwing a temper tantrum and breaking everything in sight.

He has felt this way for quite a while, but today has been one of the worst in the last few months. In charge of the afternoon tour, he has been parading around the marble floor of the museum's many halls with a group of young children following close behind. Crowley gives his usual speech as they walk, pointing out important features of the many displays and answering any questions the kids throw at him.

Unfortunately, one of these kids has decided to climb onto a large display and touch the ancient bones of a long-dead fucking dinosaur. The security alarm alerts Crowley and the group to his antics and it trips out the latter out, who begin screaming in response.

Crowley just about sees red, ears ringing from the noise as he crawls beneath the chain fence and onto the display alongside the boy.

“Hey, kid!” Crowley calls over the wail of the alarm, “Get back here! You can't touch those!”

The boy only shoots a rebellious look at Crowley before sticking out his tongue and placing another sweaty, sticky, chocolate-covered fingertip on the rough surface of the Tyrannosaurus' vertebral column. Crowley has had enough.

“Okay. Fuck this.” He lunges forward, pulling the kid back by circling his little chest with his arms and yanking backwards.

The two of them fall off of the display and onto the floor, the sound of Crowley's skull hitting the ground taking over the alarm, which slowly dies down as the display is once more free of a child's touch. 

Crowley's vision swims from the impact, and a dull pain throbs at the back of his head as the kid scuttles away, out of Crowley's grasp. A crowd steadily grows around him, all talking worriedly and fussing over his body. His stomach lurches but he can't move just yet. In fact, he thinks he'd rather like to shut his eyes and go to sleep right about now.

“Don't let him fall asleep!” Someone calls from the crowd, and Crowley's eyes shoot open.

Cool hands flutter over his forehead and then down to the dip of his throat, sliding over his temples and through his hair. Crowley feels too hot and very uncomfortable but the hands are helpful. Crowley's vision is still quite blurred, and he can't tell for sure if it's the fall that has damaged his eyes, making his vision bleary or if he’s crying.

“You're going to be okay. Alright? Stay with us. Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?”

A blur of white skin enters his hazy view and Crowley shrugs with as much energy as he can muster. He opens his mouth to speak but it's really dry and he almost swallows his tongue in his efforts. He coughs and splutters.

“Okay, never mind. Look, I'm going to come with you in the ambulance,” The disembodied voice continues.

Crowley blinks slowly. Is this... _God_? Has he actually died and is stuck somewhere between Heaven and Earth? Whether he has died or not, this is most definitely the last time he conducts a children's museum tour. There's a reason he avoids kids as much as he can. They're _demons_.

Gloved hands grip Crowley's arms and legs and something is wrapped around his neck, which jolts him from his dream-like thoughts. What's happening now? He feels light as he is lifted and set onto another surface. He rocks from side to side for a few minutes before he's set on his back once more. Then, an engine starts and he feels the tell-tale rumble of a vehicle over shitty, pot-holed road. 

The nice hands find him once more, fingertips sliding through his hair. It helps to ground him.

“Can you tell me if you're okay now?”

Crowley clears his throat a couple of times to moisten his mouth. Eventually he feels capable of speaking, and when he does, it's croakier than he's ever heard his voice before, but at least he can communicate. 

“I don't know. Are you an angel?” Crowley asks.

The voice laughs softly and it makes him feel warm. “No. No, I'm not.”

“Wh— where am I going?”

The fingers press softly across the expanse of Crowley's forehead and it makes his eyes flutter.

“The hospital. You're in an ambulance. You fell from quite a height and hit your head hard against the floor. Don't worry, the doctor's will take a look and I'll be with you.” The voice pauses. “Do you have anyone you'd like me to call?”

Crowley thinks of his estranged family and the friends he doesn't have, swallowing roughly. He opens his mouth but fears that his voice will crack or something equally as embarrassing will make his emotions obvious. He shakes his head.

“That's fine. Try to stay awake for me.”

The ride in the ambulance passes quick, with the beeping of a nearby machine keeping his mind focused on his reality. The rumbling of the vehicle is comforting and wants so desperately to lull him to a sleep. He wants so badly to do so but he doesn't want to let down the person who is helping him. Despite Crowley being told he's not an angel, Crowley finds it hard to believe. After all, he seems to have materialised from nowhere and is helping him through this ordeal.

The ambulance comes to a stop and the doors are opened. Crowley still can't see properly but the light of the outside world is bright and he struggles to keep his eyes open as they pull him out and he, the man with the nice voice, and the paramedics, move as one into the hospital. It's busy, if the noise is anything to go by, with people speaking and a radio playing quietly overhead.

Somewhere between being pushed through the doors of the hospital and entering the lift, Crowley's consciousness slips and he falls into darkness with worried voices trying to keep him awake. He can't hold onto it anymore, so he falls into a sleep, and drifts.

*

Crowley wakes slowly to the sound of beeping. He blinks into cognition and though his vision still swims a little, he can thankfully make out shapes and colours more so than he could earlier. Things are more static and he's thankful for it.

He sits up and looks around his room and feels disappointment stir deep in his stomach. It's empty, and cool-fingers-nice-voice is nowhere to be seen. He drops down into his pillows and sighs loudly.

Crowley looks down at his body, his limbs feeling heavy, and he grimaces at the tasteless blue gown he's wearing. His orange museum uniform is neatly stacked on the windowsill. The room door opens and it surprises him. A nurse walks in.

“Hi there, Mister Crowley,” She greets, whipping out a clipboard and checking her wristwatch, “You've been out for an hour or so. You have a concussion. There is no injury to the brain, you'll be pleased to know. Do you remember what happened?”

Crowley purses his lips. He remembers a hit to the back of his head, the ride to the hospital, and the help he received from people he doesn't know, but not much from the actual accident. His thoughts are cloudy as he tries to weave through them.

“Not really. Not before the fall I took. Hey, do... do you know if the person who brought me here is still around?”

The nurse smiles as she fiddles with some of the buttons and monitors at Crowley's bedside. “Yes, he told us he had just popped out to get his lunch. He told us he'll be back soon.” She adjusts the drip on Crowley's hand and he stares at it with a start, having not noticed that it was there. “Is he a family member?”

Crowley pauses. Will they kick the man out if he isn't? He should think of something, and fast. “No. No, he's —” 

“His boyfriend.”

Crowley and the nurse turn to the door. The man is standing there; the man with the nice voice and the cool fingers. He is short and attractively rotund, with bright hair and an even brighter smile. Crowley nestles down into the thin blanket of his bed, suddenly feeling exposed. The nurse steps away from the bed.

“I see. Well, Anthony,” She turns back to Crowley, "You seem to be healthy. We'll come by in a few hours for another test and if the results come back clean, you'll be able to head home tonight with your boyfriend.” She grins. “See you both later.” And she leaves.

Crowley watches from behind his blanket as the man stands aside, allowing the nurse to exit the room. He shuts the door with a click as she disappears and he approaches the bed, suddenly awkward. He is holding a brown bag in his hands.

“I brought you a pastry. I had one while I waited. I wasn't sure what you liked, so...” He hands it over.

Crowley manages to gather some courage and come out of his blanket burrito, reaching over and taking the bag from his hands. Settling back into his pillows, he peers into it. It smells gorgeous, igniting something in Crowley's stomach. It gurgles loudly.

“Thank you.” Crowley pulls the pastry out and takes a bite, suddenly overcome with hunger. He takes another bite and the man pulls a chair over. Crowley watches him as he chews on the meaty pastry. The gravy is hot on his tongue.

The man is wearing a nice suit, the jacket and trousers a cream colour, with a white shirt that is paired with a pink bowtie. He's about the same age as Crowley - nineteen or twenty, maybe. He seems like one of those art students that is stuck in the nineteenth century in terms of fashion. It's kind of endearing.

“So...” Crowley finds his voice. “My boyfriend?”

The man blushes, his cheeks turning pink instantly. He shrugs and looks away. “I had to say something. I thought they'd send me out, otherwise. Sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, it's okay.” Crowley swallows down the last of the pastry. He scrunches up the bag and sets it on his lap. “What's your name?”

“Aziraphale.”

“Hi, Aziraphale. I'm Crowley.”

Aziraphale tilts his head. “Didn't the nurse call you Anthony?”

“Yeah. I mean, that's... it's a name I chose. Most people just call me Crowley, though.” He manages to smile despite the thickening atmosphere of the room. Aziraphale smiles back. “Thanks for all the help. Like, really. I'd be here alone if you didn't come along.”

“It's not a problem. I was visiting the museum for the first time and heard the commotion from across the room. I rushed over because I've had one class of first aid and wanted to try it out.” He grins cheekily.

Crowley presses his lips together, humoured. “You did good.”

Aziraphale dips his head. “Thank you.”

Crowley has to look away to regain himself. He feels as though his skin is hypersensitive, and every word Aziraphale speaks bounces off of it. 

As Crowley inspects the rest of the room, he curls his lip at how horribly bleak it is. Its walls are yellow and the linoleum floor is a faded blue. The sooner Crowley gets out of this place, the better. The silence is rapidly approaching a new level of awkward. Crowley clears his throat.

“So. That was your first time at a museum?"

“Oh, I've been to others. I'd never been to that one. I just... wanted to see dinosaurs today, I suppose.” He smiles softly. “I usually spend my time in my bookshop. Well. It has been passed down for generations, but it's mine, now.”

“You like books?” Crowley asks, intrigued by his character.

Aziraphale blushes again, and Crowley quite likes the look on him. “Yes. I love old books the most. Do you like to read?”

Crowley snorts, picking with his fingers at the loose thread on the hospital blanket. “No, not really.” He blinks harshly, tripping over his words in a haste to pull them back into his mouth. “Sorry. Sorry, I mean... I used to. I don't anymore, probably because I just don't have the time.”

“That's a perfectly good excuse,” Aziraphale teases, seemingly unbothered. “You should visit some time. My bookshop, that is. It's not too far from the museum...”

Crowley feels something unfurl beneath his chest. He feels light. “Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice.”

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale's bookshop is anything like him: clean and prim and proper, but with a little bit of an eccentric edge, too. He wonders what other interests Aziraphale has, what he does in his spare time. Crowley wonders if the test the nurse had mentioned will indeed come back clean and if he'll be allowed home before the sun sets. He wonders what his boss will tell him once he gets back to the museum. In fact...

“What happened back in the museum? Did you see?” Crowley asks, suddenly wanting to fill in the blanks in his memory. “I don't remember everything.”

Aziraphale sits upright in the chair with his hands linked over his knees, legs held tightly together even down to his ankles and dress shoes. His stiff posture almost makes Crowley smile.

Aziraphale frowns. “I asked around; phoned the museum once the nurses were sure you were stable. I hope you don't mind. They said a child from one of the tours jumped onto a display and you went after him. You both came crashing down, but you took the brunt of the fall. Right on the back of your head.”

Ah, yeah, the kid. Crowley sighs, suddenly feeling a bit lost. He isn't entirely sure why, but the feeling engulfs him. “Yeah. Yeah, that's it, thanks. I don't know why that kid did that.”

“Are you okay, Crowley?”

Crowley meets Aziraphale's eyes, finding an inviting warmth in their brightness.

“I don't know,” He replies truthfully. Then he shrugs. “I really don't know.”

Crowley supposes he feels a little put out just as a result of his injury and the saddening realisation that no one, if not Aziraphale, would visit him. It'd never occurred to him before now. It stings. Just a little.

Aziraphale nods to himself and then pulls his chair closer to the bed, sliding it over with a scrape. He reaches out and pauses, hand mid-air, and Crowley notices the gleam of a pinkie ring. After a second, Aziraphale drops his hand onto Crowley's, his shorter fingers heavy but welcoming. They're not as cool as they had been before - in fact, they're warm now, but as nice and gentle as they had been when Crowley had been flat on the marble floor of the museum, and then on the gurney in the ambulance.

Crowley stretches his fingers out and entwines them with Aziraphale's, whose fingernails are pink and short; manicured to near perfection. Crowley's are longer and he internally cringes at the chipped nail polish lathered over them. Aziraphale squeezes his hand, seeking his attention.

“Is _this_ okay?”

Crowley doesn't have to think twice about it. “Yeah. Yeah, this is okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Thanks for reading! [Tumblr](https://lawriand.tumblr.com/other). [Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nairwal).


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